Claddagh Twist
by Ellarose C
Summary: It was probably the most feminine thing he owned. That list included his embroidery hoop, stuffed unicorn, show tune collection, and extended edition of the A&E special on Pride and Prejudice. That didn't mean that he didn't adore his Claddagh ring.
1. Chapter 1

Claddagh Twist

It was probably the most feminine thing he owned. That list included his embroidery hoop, stuffed unicorn, show tune collection, and extended edition of the A&E special on _Pride and Prejudice_. That didn't mean that he still didn't adore his Claddagh ring.

It had been a birthday gift from Ireland several centuries past - a fad among her people, she assured him with a smothered grin - and he tried it on and it fit his right index finger and that had been that. The hands holding the crowned heart slowly became yet another fixture of his appearance, until even he could barely remember the origins. He did, however, keep track of meaning. He never told anyone after Ireland informed him on a bored autumn day, but his mind always informed him of the secret plea he wore on his finger every time he looked at the ring.

Right Hand, Crown In

The subtle declaration on his finger never made its mark on anyone. This was supposed to say that he was looking for love, but he may as well have been taking potshots at the moon for all of the luck he was getting. The only regular visitor he had was France, and the Lord himself knew how that could never, ever happen. All of his other friends, acquaintances, tense rivals, or foes were too afraid to approach; they smiled nervously and sidled along their way. He sighed and twisted the ring around his finger.

He came into his life like a sunset over open ocean. Each minute spent in America's company filled his heart with the gold his men failed to find, holding it within when he was away like the words of a favorite song. The boy himself couldn't get enough, either; England was his big brother, his god. But he was, above all things, a child, and the one thing children could be guaranteed to do was grow up.

It tore him up to see him rebel. A lot of sleepless nights were spent staring at military maps, wondering where he had gone wrong and twisting the ring around his finger. Much to his chagrin, however, he was an important country, with a thousand other worries beyond his pet colony and a thousand issues on his plate to prevent him from devoting all of his attentions to curbing revolution. The boy probably thought he was ignoring him, but he was never too far from his mind. The ring twisted nervously.

In that rain-drenched battlefield, he knew he had the power to destroy. Destroy America forever, crush his rebellion, turn him back into the sunrise child he so desperately loved. As they stared at each other, though, he was suddenly struck with the notion that if he did so, they would never be equals, but stuck in this master/servant dilemma and they would never be equal. Suddenly, he wanted to have him as an equal, a country over a colony, because England loved him and wanted his success. He believed that all men should be created equal.

In the end, he didn't shoot, and neither did America. As he watched him walk away, his left hand dropped the gun and twisted the ring, slipping it off for a second and flipping it.

In his mind, his heart was officially taken.

Right Hand, Crown Out

If the revolution was torture, the following centuries were the outer rings of hell. He watched his child, his secret love, fumble under the guidance of demigods, explore himself and fight himself, experience all of the riotous trials and emotions that Europe had gone through, but condensed to hyperspeed. He could do nothing but watch and wait, helping and hinting and prodding and twisting, always twisting, wanting to shelter him and coddle him so badly but pushing the idea away, knowing it wouldn't help in the long run and America wouldn't thank him anyway. That didn't mean the urge still didn't present itself.

It would be almost a hundred years before they truly felt they could start anew. They started with trade, commerce, ambassadors, like they were impersonal, but their histories and their personalities wouldn't let that stay for long. Before two score had passed, they were talking again, tentatively, with a lot more arguments and yelling than ever before, dialogue thick with allusions and insults and tumult but still there. This was both the same and a completely different America than the one he had known, in ways he couldn't pin down but still loved, and probably loved more than before. He kept it to himself, but his ring stayed crown out. Maybe one day he would learn.

The world moved at the reckless pace of industry and enlightenment, and before he even realized a century had passed and they were quickly passing the level of intimacy that had existed in his adolescence but different, better, because now they were equals and no punches had to be pulled, and they loved it. The bickering took on a level of fondness that caused notice, and it wasn't long before they started brushing together when walking, a minute more than accidental and a second longer than friendly, and eye contact made them both blush and stammer. Time alone was overbearingly awkward and yet not, until one day it overflowed.

It was after they had become allies. There were in a makeshift bomb shelter a field away from Flanders, and America was wrapping his hand in dirty gauze where it had been grazed by a bullet across his palm. He tucked the end under and kissed the heel of his thumb - _'for luck_', he said - but didn't let his hand go. He twisted and leaned against the dirty wall next to England, pulling him close and wrapping his arm around the outside of his torso. He was in too much nauseating pain, too tired to complain or scold, and could only simply let his head fall back into the shoulder hollow and closed his eyes. America examined his limp fingers like he had never touched them before, careful not to disturb the holes in his hand enough to cause pain. He twisted the ring around his finger.

"England, what _is_ this?" America asked him, waking him up from his drowsy exhaustion.

"Mmm?" He looked up to see America's too close too blue eyes, curious, trained on his ring. "Oh, it's my Claddagh ring," he mumbled, staring down at his hand. He reached over with his other hand to touch it. America took the chance and seized hold of it instead, his fingers pressing down in his palm to make the fingers dance.

"What's it mean?" he asked him, frowning as he ran a finger over the heart.

"Eh?" England was so exhausted that he barely registered the question he had been waiting almost seven score to hear.

"Everything about you has a purpose," America elaborated, leaning his cheek onto the top of his head. "What's this one?"

England hummed as he considered. "The symbol itself's supposed to mean 'with my hands I give you my love, crowned with my loyalty.' Besides that, it can be put like this-" he flipped the ring over crown in - "on your right hand, it means you're looking for love. If the crown's out-" flip- "it means your heart is taken, or captured by the crown. If it's like this-" flip and switch hands- "you're engaged, and like this-" flip again- "you're married." He slid it back to its usual position and relinquished his hands back to America's control. They stared at the ring.

"Sounds kind of girly to me," he mumbled. England was too tired to do anything but ignore him. "So you're saying your heart's taken?" he said a little louder, and the situation finally hit him and England jolted. America's outside arm held him in place, and he blushed furiously.

"Maybe."

America laughed, low and sweet. England nuzzled closer unconsciously, and the laugh turned into a sigh. His outside arm pulled in closer, and his injuries cried but he ignored them with the practice of a thousand year old soldier.

"Come on, England. Don't be shy."

The cockiness and undertones of anxiety in his tone told him everything. "Oh, stop it, you fool," he scolded without heart, elbowing him lightly and looking up to see soft eyes already gazing steadily.

Both of America's hands brought up both of his and he kissed the knuckles as he stared, mouth slightly open and eyes slightly wide.

England had loved him longer, maybe, but America loved him more, and the sudden jerk up and the crushing presence endeavored to tell him so in so many words, and his hands didn't have far to go to clutch at the nape of his neck and generations of tension poured into poured into that mouth, and it was more important than air for several wonderful minutes.

They pulled away incompletely, continuing to touch lips, addicted. Between small kisses, America asked, "How long has your ring been sitting like that?"

"Since your revolution," he replied, twisting to face him and slipping onto his lap for better leverage. America's thumbs rubbed over his cheeks, which he realized were wet. He reached up to wipe them away, but America grabbed his hand, causing a wince and a sharp gasp. He kissed it in apology.

"You know," he said softly, sliding the ring off his finger, "I think I like it this way better." Flip, change hands. England stared at his left hand, crown in, and he stopped breathing.

"Are-" his mouth was dry, he swallowed- "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been." He lifted his chin with a bent finger and gazed, looked away, chuckled. He was vulnerable.

"Dammit, England." He kissed his fingers, his cheeks, lips, eyes, nose, lips again. "I _love_ you."

He pounced, fingers pulling on America's collar to try to get him deeper, closer, desperate. His waiting had reaped the reward at last, and he was going to suck everything from this moment for future use. America responded; oh, how he responded, hands sliding everywhere and tongue twisting around, his legs twitching underneath him in agitation.

They slid slowly to the floor and it was perfect, they were perfect, they didn't need anything else, the war outside fell away, and they twisted.

* * *

{A/N: Another two shot. Second part will be up sometime this week.}


	2. Chapter 2

Left Hand, Crown In

It was literally the longest engagement in history.

A score and a half had come and gone before a marriage was even seriously considered. Both of them loved each other, of course, more than the world, but they were too busy, or too politically or economically or martially unstable for such a commitment between two world powers. Wars were won and generations passed, and still they fretted around each other, ignoring the subject at every possible cost. It took thirty five years for anything to really happen.

It was after midnight in an early April in the early fifties. They were twisted around each other with the sheets in between, half asleep collectively. England clutched at the strong arm wrapped around him with one hand, twisting his ring with the other, staring into darklit darkness with wide blind eyes.

"America?" he called into the shadows.

"Mmm?" The voice was deep and at his shoulder, groggy and lovely.

England chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. "I think it's past time."

"Time for what?" America was still not awake and comprehensive, his fingers kneading his skin like a cat pawing on their owner's stomach.

"It's high time we got married."

America bolted upright, his vice grip pulling England up with him. Grunts of protest fell on deaf ears as he twisted him around to face him, gripping his shoulders harshly. "Are you sure?" Wild, scared eyes, blue and vulnerable. England smiled.

"As sure as I've ever been." He reached up to cup America's face. "I love you, America." His smile grew to a grin. "It's like some people say, you've got to shit or get off the pot."

America laughed like church bells, loud and jubilant. He pulled him close and whispered, "That may have topped my proposal for being the most unromantic and uncouth thing to say." He lost his fingers in the sheets behind England, and they smiled.

Their engagement lasted thirty five years. The plans for the wedding took three months. It wasn't a political arrangement, so nasty paperwork could be virtually ignored, beyond the informing of bosses and whatnot. They didn't even have to buy rings - England had his Claddagh that America would flip, and America had a band made from the first nugget of the gold rush that he had been saving for something important. They didn't match - England's ring was silver, and America's didn't have any design - but they liked it that way. Soon, countries were invited, presents were received, and a cake was ordered.

Five days before the wedding, they eloped to Hawai'i and were married by a local preacher/shaman on the beach.

Of course they had a devil of a time explaining it to those who were invited to the intended wedding, but they still had the party and doubled the alcohol quotientpresent, so everyone ended up happy. It was crazy, and it was perfect, and it was totally worth it.

They were finally married, twisted together after forty years of dancing.

Left Hand, Crown Out

Married life wasn't too different than their engagement. They still spent long weekends alone together, bickered constantly, could never compromise on anything even if they agreed, ached from absence when one left the other to cross the ocean. (Okay, well, the baby boom had to come from somewhere.) They really just flipped a ring, but it was special to them and that was all that mattered.

Now that England's ring had gone through its intended cycle, it seemed to give up. It started to color and rust, if silver could rust, turning green and red. The centuries of some of the most extensive wear and tear finally were beginning to show.

England was standing at the bathroom sink with a bottle of silver polish and a dirty rag when America showed up for his visit. They called to each other through the walls, but England was still furiously wiping at the red and green crusts on his ring.

America finally found him and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder with closed eyes and a sigh. He leaned back into him, closing his eyes as well and melting.

"What're you doing?" he whispered in his ear after a minute of holding and sighing.

"Trying to clean my ring," he whispered back, shaking himself back to consciousness and starting back with scrubbing. It was like the scum came back as soon as the rag swept by. America watched him rub vainly at the old metal for a bit.

"You know, I could always get you a new one," he offered tentatively. England's hands paused in twisting the rag around the inside of the ring. "I know it's got a history for you - and it's beautiful, really it is - but it's falling apart and you know it, love," he went on, sensing the tension in his arms. He squeezed him tighter as his hands fell to rest on the edge of the sink and his head fell to his chest.

"Yeah, I know. It's just..." he trailed off and sniffed. "It's been with me through so much."

"Aw, baby, come here," America cooed, and his hands dropped the ring with the rag threaded through it and he twisted around in the embrace to face him, burying his face into his shirt. America made small comforting noises and rubbed his back in circles, letting him cry. "You've had that thing for, what, three hundred years now?" he asked him when he recovered.

He wiped his eyes. "Four, actually."

"Honey, honey," he coddled, taking his face in his hands and tilting it up to look at red and green eyes. "Jewelry wasn't made to last forever." He let him go and reached around him to the sink, removing the rag and wiping off the extra polish still caked on the design. "Honestly, I'm surprised it's lasted this long. Ireland didn't exactly give you the most finely made ring in the world," he said with a grin, studying the ring. He twirled it between two fingers, then took England's left hand and slid it back on, crown out. "But if you don't want to get a new one, I totally understand. I wasn't gonna force you to anything. Besides, you've had this as long as I can remember. Somehow, it wouldn't be right if you weren't wearing it." He smiled at him again, and he had to smile back.

He looked down at his hand, tips of his fingers still clasped by America, and sighed in sorrow. "It really is falling apart, isn't it?"

He nodded, then his face brightened suddenly and he snapped. "I know! I know a great guy up in New York - fantastic man, really - who loves to work on old stuff. We can give it to him to refurbish or whatever and have it looking like its fresh from Ireland again in no time," he said eagerly, gripping England's hand and bouncing on his heels.

England started in shock for a second, a lopsided smile growing unconsciously. "That'd be nice."

"Sweet!" America cheered and bent down to touch lips only swiftly, but England reached up before he could back away and kissed him hungrily, because it had been almost two weeks and he was being so sweet. America laughed into his mouth and pulled him closer.

He pulled back breathlessly, incomplete as always, still rhythmically touching between words as he said, "What say you" kiss "to giving the ring" kiss "a proper sendoff?" He twisted their positions and backed out of the bathroom, heading towards the bed. America laughed and let himself be led away.

"As you wish, love."

The next day, they took the long way up through the backroads to New York, spending time together to reverie with in the future on the epic journey to clean England's ring. It was married life in its prime; beyond the haze of lust (although lust still factored into the equation), but still in young love, laughing more than frowning and always a comfortable silence. They rode with the windows down and the windshield wipers on, singing along with America's latest rock and roll hits like teenagers. It was worth the chastising they were sure to get for the extra vacation time.

The New York man America mentioned was surprisingly young and hip, but the look in his eyes when he saw England's ring convinced him more than America's exuberant praise that this was the perfect guy for the job. In a few days, almost hours, the Claddagh ring shone brighter than ever. He twisted it around his finger and nodded his approval, and they swore it in much like they had retired the old one. Their celebrations were like alohas; the same act meant 'hello' and 'goodbye.'

Ireland probably thought, on that unimportant birthday half a millennium ago, that England would scoff and throw the ring in some dusty pile in the attic, forgotten like so many other bits of his history. She would have laughed if you told her he would wear it, and die from hysterics if he said it would be his wedding ring, since her country used them for females. That was what defined the relationship, though; doing the unexpected for the sake of doing it and nothing else. Ever twisting.

* * *

{A/N: Sorry for the lame ending and distinct lack of any kind of porn. Maybe I'll add another chapter tomorrow. As of now, though, consider it done.}


End file.
